Close Your Eyes

Sunday, October 30, 2011

We both pack gin and bubbles. He is Richie Tenebaum, post cutting-scene, and I am a Thai boxer. Greeting us in a cab is a graying Miss Liza Minnelli and a Just Dance era Gaga.

Inside is Geri Ginger Spice in Union Jack and Zombie boy, the re-viral living meme and pet of Nicolas Formichetti. Introductions and gossip are followed by four-to-a-mirror primping in the bathroom. The party ends at 11:30 as instructed. We side step to a gay bar.

To Pitbull, where a hairy, shirtless chest of tattoos is the common costume. Give high kicks on the back smoking patio, threaten most with murder. Then slip off a cold street into a cab, the pale shins under a lengthy coat the only sign of a boxer.

Thursday, September 08, 2011

Months of snakes and ladders led to this perfect rest. Too much television and piping hot tea, autumn’s first cold weather top the window sill. Trips to the grocer to purchase foods she’d never eat.

Walks across the Meadows and quiet reading at coffee shops she frequents; life inside her shoes. Big back cabs are painted with Marc Jacobs flowers, they sit stagnant outside of hotels made of weathered brick.

The sun peaks out only once, really, behind some picture tree. Her flatmates wonder what her friends are doing, flying cross the world to hide underneath a blanket, such sleepish slugs.

To them some shrugs and this: those afternoons are the best we’ll ever have.